A piece of me
by gladiator59
Summary: A tragedy turned her life upside down, forcing her to be the strongest she's ever been. It's only when she least expects it that miracles seem to finally happen.
1. Chapter 1

She's exhausted. Yet it was another day spent emotionally drained. Another day scratched down with memories she could only wish she could finally start to mourn. The pain still as sharp as a blade, dancing on every surface of her heart, eating up her mind, leaving her restless, almost desperate for that break. Until she starts wishing she would just crumble and end it. She shakes her head, willing herself to think about something else. Keep your head up, your priorities straight. That's her motto. What's keeping her from straying out of shape. Divert her from thinking about the missing piece in her life. She puts the last plate in the dishwasher and turns to put away the last of the cereal bar box she had pulled out in an effort to quell her son's famished stomach while they waited for dinner to finish cooking. She loves being a mother, it brought so much peace, laughter and balance to her life. She loves her son. Her balance in life. The only person that actually keeps her moving. The only person that gives her life meaning, urges her to wake up every morning. Keep up with goals. Keeps her grounded. The equilibrium she was missing. Somewhat of an equilibrium. She's trying to resist the temptation of the green bottle. She's been drowning in her work, she's way ahead than she needs to be but it's her only way of shutting her mind up, especially after she puts her son to bed. She fears the silence, the constant reminder that she's alone now.

_Think about the case. Think about the case._ But she already had noticed a breach in the contract. A clause that shouldn't be there and screws the other side's claims completely. She had her ideas in place. She just needed to lay them down. And after more than a decade as a lawyer, it was a piece of cake. Not much to keep her distracted enough to think about something else. Anything else but how her life took a turn she never expected it to take. She can remember that day as if it was yesterday, when it actually took place almost three years ago. Two years, eight months and two weeks, to be exact. It's bitter, and deep down she hates herself for keeping the count down, hoping that someday someone will actually tell her it was some sick joke. That he hasn't been ripped from her life so abruptly.

The memories of him are dancing in her head. So vivid sometimes she woke up disappointed feeling the coldness of the other side of the bed. At the void it left so deep, so poignant. Almost three years later, and she still couldn't move on. It was impossible. Try taking her heart out instead. She tried to move on with her life, everyone on both sides of the family meddling in until she agreed to put herself back in the dating market. But no one was him. He had left a print, labels and marked her as his deep within her soul. Sometimes it was almost depressing. Depressing because she couldn't see the bits of him in the faces of potential candidates as she bitterly called them. Depressing that she still looked for similarities in the faces sitting opposite the table. Dates felt like acid washing her whole body, a poison to the soul, and now she was taking a break. A break from everything, thankful she could use the parenting excuse. After all, she was now both a father and a mother to little Ryan. Her baby boy who looked so painfully like his father. The man who damned her soul. Who gave her a taste of what ecstasy tasted like, what loving wholly and completely truly meant. What an earth-shattering love tasted like. Only to have it ripped from her life, so abruptly.

The first few months were hell; she was a sleep-walking zombie. A non-functioning human. Everything was dull, bland, she was in some kind of denial. She would sit in his recliner, that old ugly piece of furniture she hated so much and he loved to death, and stare indefinitely to the front door. As if he would one day open the door and the nightmare would finally stop. Suddenly like it initially started. And they would be back to being a family. The tight-knit bundle of love that they used to be.

The sound of the washing machine starting startles her thoughts. She shakes her head. She grabs the bottle. Tonight will be one of those nights. She grabs the ridiculously big wine glass; her favorite. Her signature glass as they used to joke about it. Except that now, it doesn't feel like something she'd laugh about. She puts everything on the average sized coffee table and as she goes to retrieve her suitcase- first, climbing the stairs she peeks at her son's bedroom, checks to see if he uncovered himself in his sleep before heading back down to the living room. She takes the remote, unmutes the TV and switches to the news, her attempt at some background noise, somewhat of a not-so-useful distraction. An attempt to kill the gnawing feeling of loneliness. She makes herself comfortable in what, ironically, became her favorite seat –the recliner- crossing her legs underneath herself and takes her notepad, and starts to furiously scribble notes, dates, and ideas. She writes the detailed usual steps until her fingers go numb, twirling on the thin paper, until her mind goes on autopilot, like a robot, a vain attempt at numbing the memories that emerge to the surface when she has some alone time. Spare time on her hand is an enemy, teasingly bringing up memories in an attempt to choke the life out of her.

The slight friction noise of feet moving on the staircase carpet suddenly startles her in her thoughts, bringing her back to what reality really looks like, to a house too big, too full of painfully sweet memories and unfinished dreams. She looks up, taking in the striking resemblance between the little boy and his father. It still gets her every time. Meeting the slightly lighter shade of smaller blue orbs is always the hardest. It's what makes her heart ache, clutch so hard as if air judged her unfit to inhale again. But she smiles, forcing some oxygen down her lungs, puts the notepad and glass down and opens her arms, a heartfelt gesture to get some love, grasp the last bit of paradise left within her arm reach. And the little boy curls his body into his mother's, his face in her bosom, ear against her heart, taking comfort in its steady beating. He exhales, more tears streaming down his soft chubby cheeks.

"Bad dream?" she softly asks, running her hand in a pattern that she knows will ease whatever is bothering her son. He nods, clutching his favorite teddy bear tighter in the already limited space between their bodies, hugging some comfort to them, a makeshift security blanket falling over him. "Do you remember what it was about?"

"Not really," the soft innocent voice fills the room, a yawn barely contained but she can tell he won't fall back asleep, not with trouble in his mind. He looks up at her and hesitates for a moment, "Can we look at the album?" The pain is stabbing her in the heart, the blade sliding deeper again and again. But despite every emotion that's killing her, she wouldn't turn him down. She should have expected it; family albums were his source of comfort, her source of pain.

She kisses his temple affectionately, taking a moment just lingering there, seeking some reassurance, she smooth his unruly curls, "Sure. You go grab it?"

He comes back less than two minutes later, both hands supporting the thick black book filled with so many memories, capturing so much love and hopes and dreams. Their love, hopes and dreams. She settles him on her lap, in front of her, gently placing his head back to her chest, combing through his curls, trying pointlessly to tame his front curl, an inheritance from his father. The curl impossible to tame. Ryan opens the thick book, chubby fingers gently fingering his baby bracelet like he's been taught to, she takes his forefinger, tracing his name on the white hospital paper, 'Ryan Thomas Grant'. She can remember how upset she first was when he wanted to stray from the family legacy, he didn't want his son to bear what he doomed as an old-fashioned name, he wanted his son to have a legacy of his own, and a little Gerry just didn't do it. _Fitzgerald_, she loved the name but she loved the name that bore it even more. So she went with it, they went through baby book after baby book, searching for _the_ name when it actually came to them, one day while shopping at a baby store. She had to admit; she fell in love with it, so did he.

They turn page after page, laying memories after memories each feels like a slap to her face as she recalls each one of them with striking exactitude; a first picture of baby Ryan bundled up in a thick blue blanket on his mother's chest a few minutes after his birth, then a first family picture showing the two proud parents –both looking so enamored and with a sense of pride only a parent could seemingly understand. That picture is probably her favorite even as tired as she looks, even if her hair looks like a mess, her smile and happiness never looked as genuine as they did. She was glowing. The motherly aura as they call it. Then her eyes shift to him- ever the proud daddy. His eyes, the brightest she's ever seen them, a smile stretching his face from ear to ear, as he looks down at his son with a look of adoration that never fails to tuck at her heart. One of his hands splayed over hers holding the newborn while the other is around her shoulder, holding her tightly to him.

The next one is the same fashion, same positions, only they're looking at each other, a look of disbelief traced on their faces as they're finally meeting the little baby they've been waiting for for months. The next few pictures display the first months of their son in various activities, his every firsts, everything. They even have a pile of DVDs, an idea her husband had gotten and she had laughed at it. They captured a little lifetime of happiness, every milestone their son accomplished: first grin, first smile, first laugh, first time standing, and every other first possible. Her head is swimming in movies of what was and what used to be, leaving her empty, forced to be the strong one, deprived from her rock. She couldn't move on, something deep inside her wouldn't let her. The magnet that used to pull them automatically to each other still somehow moving, it was just impossible to turn that page of her life.

* * *

_Flashback:_

_She was just finishing changing the baby's diaper, leaning down to kiss his chubby cheek, inhaling the clean baby scent. She opens her eyes, mesmerized at how quickly weeks had gone by. It seemed like only yesterday she had peed on a stick allowing herself to wonder at how she was going to break the news to Fitz._

_She wanted to do something fun, take him by surprise only to see how his face would switch from shock to wonder to pure excitement. She knew being a father meant a huge deal to him, hell it meant a lot to her. She wanted this baby; she needed his baby, a small part of them – of him growing in her. And boy was she happy when she looked down at the test. But now, having their son, taking him in her arms, meant the word to her. She felt complete. _

_The coos from the baby snap her from her thoughts, she makes silly faces at him, trying to get toothless smiles and occasional giggles that for the past three months have filled her days and nights with so much joy she felt like bursting. Her heart kept growing bigger and bigger, and it amazed her how motherhood had affected her, for the best that is. For the most part, Ryan was a happy baby, fussing only when something really bothered him or when he was hungry. She places her hands under his armpits to support him, bringing him to her as close as possible, rubbing his back as she brings his little pants up. She loved little moments like that, bonding with her son, holding him and forgetting about everything else, she was in their small world, never intending on going back. She had been stressed out about being responsible for someone else, even if she wasn't and would never be alone; she had a rock star husband, always putting her and their son first. Making sure their every need was satisfied, and for that she loved him wholly, their relationship as a couple had reached a peak she never knew existed._

"_Smile, mommy," she hears the unique baritone say._

_She turns, and throws her head back in laughter when she sees him holding the camera, her reaction causing the baby to laugh as well as if he knew how silly his daddy was being as he made his way over towards them, his smile never fading. Sometimes she wonders how his jaw doesn't hurt from smiling so much. But really, she can't argue that point; she couldn't stop the smiling either, their life was a safe heaven. _

"_What are you doing?" she asks, wondering why he hasn't put the device down yet._

"_I'm videotaping," he says shrugging, as if it was totally obvious._

"_Videotaping? Why?" and she can't hold her laughter any longer, throwing her face back in a careless manner again, her eyes tightly closing, in that way that leaves him speechless of her beauty. And he can't imagine his life being any different. Here she is, standing by their bed next to the window from which sunrays grace her face in the most exquisite manner, holding their son. The baby boy who had him completely at his mercy. He never doubted her as a mother, he knew she would be perfect, but actually seeing it, he can only count his lucky stars for putting her his way. _

"_Because I have this gorgeous wife that's holding our son, the most perfect baby in the word," he replies, shutting the device and putting it on the bed as he closes the distance until he's standing right in front of her. Pearly smiles and shiny eyes never leaving. He pulls her to him, until the baby is sandwiched between his parents and gently starts rocking them as she hums. He takes his son, settling him securely on one hand holding him to his chest as he brings her closer; swaying to the sweet lullaby she's singing. He lays a kiss on her forehead as they continue their imaginary dance._

* * *

The steady rise and fall as well as the slight snoring greet her when she comes back from memory land, a bittersweet taste lingering on her tongue as she closes the heavy photo album and starts rocking him to a deep untroubled sleep, just like she did when he was a newborn and would wake up at night. She lays a kiss to his temple, "It's you and me buddy, just us. Everything will be just fine."

When she got the call, that night, she was just putting him to bed. They had gotten home late and she just wanted to sink into a hot bath and call him for their daily night call. She missed him but she understood that the situation was just temporary. They loved their country and serving it even if it meant him being deployed for six months wasn't exactly a bother. He had done it before and it was his last mission. One last mission and the travels and long distances would stop. She was willing to do the sacrifice; lack of sleep, a full time job she loved and taking care of their son alone for a few months didn't scare her. He had waited until she had settled in her career to start a family, now it was her turn. Compromise. But never in a thousand years did the thought of him never coming back home cross her mind. She still couldn't utter the D word aloud. It would be adding salt to injury. She knew he could be injured but the job never really had him going on the field anymore, he was mainly there for supervising. Rarely did he fly again since Ryan was born. Plus he had the grad. He could afford it. They had their plans; he would step down after his last mission and finally put his law degree to use. He loved the law, and he loved teaching.

Obviously, life had other plans.

When she got the call, the tone of the agent talking to her immediately raised flags. What the hell happened? Where was her husband? He swore he would never leave her, leave their family. It almost felt like betrayal. She could still feel the chills and shivers running through her body, making her shake so much her body gave up on her. Next thing she knew, she felt the cold floor hugging her cheeks and arms as words swam in her head, making it impossible for her to think, her entire being was frozen. Lost in gravity. She felt like she was floating, completely paralyzed. Cold was gaining her slowly; her palms and forehead were clammy, and only after what seemed like an eternity did sobs shake her body. Remembering the sleeping child down the hall, she forced herself quiet until she was able to grab a pillow and screamed in it with all she had, praying no one could hear her despair as salty tears cascaded down her cheeks. She was drained, no energy was left in her, and her body was lifeless. She wondered if that was what dying inside felt like. She closed her eyes, praying that she had imagined it all as sleep finally won her over.

There was no body, they couldn't find any. He had gone on some special mission with two other men and no one's body was found. They had combed the entire perimeter all the way to the base, and nothing. Not one clue. And after a month of very active search day in and day out, political threats did nothing to bring up any vital information. They had been declared as dead. She had had to bury an empty casket, a shiny expensive wooden box that took her heart, hope and dreams with it as it sunk to the ground. She was barely standing when the service was done. Actually she didn't give it a second in her mind, useless apologies wouldn't bring back the husband she lost, the lover she shared her life with and the best friend she had. She was as they called her in a deep shock. If she didn't have a little boy depending solely on her now, God knew what she would have become.

She shakes her head again, summoning her mind and thoughts to the present moment. It had taken her time, a lot of time, but she somewhat embraced the daily life of a single, widowed whatever her situation was called mom as best as she could. Deep down, she knew she had to. A part of him was still living within her baby, the little boy she clung desperately to.

He was her lifeline now. She wouldn't screw it up.

She lifts her son in her arms, taking his sleeping body back to bed and tucking him in. Hoping he would settle for the night for her to finish her papers before calling it a night. Barely had she sat down again, her phone started ringing, the gnawing unwanted feeling feasting on her again, it felt like nearly three years ago. A sudden panic taking over her as she stared at an unknown phone number, praying with all she had left in her that whatever it was wouldn't finish her right there and then. The room felt too small although normally too big for a family of two. A trembling thumb swept across the screen to accept the call when she somewhat got her breathing back to normal.

_Mrs. Grant._ _Ma'am, we need you to come to a secured location now. Your husband is alive._

* * *

**The last thing I should be doing is starting this but I just couldn't stop myself, typical me!**

**This idea wouldn't stop eating my brain so I thought I would share it with you guys. I hope this wasn't too confusing, I tried making it as clear as I pictured it. I took a few liberties writing this since I don't know much about the Navy or protocol or anything like that but I really hope you won't mind and would you want to read more of this. More about them should come just let me know! **

**The chapter for Love at Second Sight is still in progress since I've been working on setting this but it should be up soon :) **


	2. Chapter 2

She spent the entire drive lost in her thoughts. She felt totally at loss, needless to say the situation was none of the ordinary. She had spent almost three years refusing to mourn a body she didn't bury. Confused was a huge understatement to how she felt. It was more like betrayal, she felt like the entire system had just mocked her, laughing at her face while tearing up for appearances. When the phone rang, it was a whole other level of shock swallowing her as her mind fought against the twinge of happiness her heart felt. A tiny part of her was relieved. Relieved that he was there, alive and breathing. She needed to follow her head- she was hanging to sanity with a thread. She knew one thing, she had to act and act wisely.

She had barely thrown on some shoes when her phone vibrated again. She had managed to call her mom, asked her to keep an eye on Ryan while she tried to figure out what was going on and what she would do. If there was something she could do. What kind of whirlwind she was placed in again.

Despite the thundering hope in her chest, she couldn't afford to hit rock bottom. Not again. She refused to let the accumulated hope she had prayed for fool her. Not until and unless she saw him again. Not until she had tangible proof. Maybe then she'll allow herself to crumble and let hope in. For now, her defenses were up, higher than ever.

She barely had time to fill her mom in, the situation making no sense before she flew out the door. She wasn't at all surprised when a strong knock was heard at her door. She was expecting for a car to come and get her. But now, the entire situation felt surreal, adrenaline running in her veins, fusing to her blood, as she tried to organize her confused mind. Why wait all these years? Who had failed her, failed them? Why lead her to believe that she had lost her everything then suddenly throw her a bone?

She looks at the public streetlights that are barely noticeable through the heavily tinted car window that came to her house. She couldn't thing straight for now, there were too many things vying for attention, suffocating her. She closes her eyes, only to have a vivid representation of his face appear behind her heavy eyelids. She leans her cheek against the window, working on regulating the breathing that was already becoming uneven. She tried to relax a little, she didn't need instructions to know tonight would be long, very long.

She opens her eyes when the car comes to a halt, a man dressed in a formal black suit opening her door, leading her through a long, dark corridor. They walked a few minutes, but it was enough for her to start feeling claustrophobic, and for her heart to start a wild run tucking on the veins to escape and run. Where? That's the mystery. She's thorn, what if she's not ready? Her head had fallen from above her shoulders the second she left home. Now, her heart was giving up on her. She exhales, loudly. It's not like she's bothering the unnerving calm company around her. Were she alone, she couldn't have sensed a difference in the coldness surrounding her. She was escorted by a man who hasn't looked at her or spoken to her other than three words, "follow me, Ma'am" before leaving her to follow his tracks. She's about to open her mouth when she closes it again, a heavy door standing before them.

He slides what she can guess is a card and the fortress opens. It's a room, or what is supposed to be a room, but the lightening is minimal, blue-ish, and it's cold, as if death had declared itself master of the universe she had stepped in. The door behind her closes, making a sound that nearly makes her jump from her skin. She clenches her fist, her nails biting into skin, the slight pain in her palm failing in giving her some comfort. She's not dreaming.

A taller man, if such thing was possible, makes his way towards her, holding a paper cup from which dark liquid is nearly spilling from the brim. As he approaches her personal space she smells the strong scent of cheap coffee. He hands her the hot cup, she gladly accepts it; taste be damned.

"Mrs. Grant, thank you for coming so fast. I'm agent Tom Larsen. We thought you would want to know about the situation." It's the man who called her, she recognizes the baritone. The voice is strong, almost commanding, but cold and void of any compassion. Not that she needs it. She was sick and tired of the pity looks she still gets.

_You really don't say. _She bites her lips in an attempt to stop the tide of accusations threatening to unleash. Instead, she brings the cup to her lips, taking a small sip crunching her nose at the bad taste. Definitely not a brand she'd go for. But the distraction is not strong enough; she's furious, steam nearly spilling from her, "Would you care to explain what's going on ? I get a call nearly three years ago that breaks my entire family, your superior or whomever the hell it was _assured_ me that you looked for him. He was left for _d- dead _and now, suddenly, my husband just _reappears_?"

His features do not, for a second flinch or change, as if engraved in stone forever. "We understand that the situation might be unusual but, Ma'am, you were the first call as soon as your husband was cleared."

"Cleared? Cleared from what? Since when do you have him?"

"The situation is a little delicate. I'll fill you in as we walk, he's down the hall," the agent replies ignoring her questions. She wants to act stubborn, stand still until he or someone else gave her some answers. Be like a kid in a candy store when their parents refuse to give in and indulge in more candy or buy the latest new fashionable toy. But she's an adult, the bitter reminder that she can't be selfish but being kept in the dark is not something she appreciates. _He's down the hall. _Just like that he had her, she takes the bait. She forgets that she's mad, that she feels betrayed. She starts walking towards the direction he has taken, striding to keep up with his fast pace until she stops in her tracks. She can't hear what the agent is saying anymore.

Right in front of her, behind a tinted tall glass wall, sitting on the uncomfortable metallic chair is her husband. He's not looking in her direction; he can't see her because of the glass between them if he tried. Everything stops. Everything is frozen, hanging in the air like she is. The wind is knocked out of her. Breath stuck in her throat. She can't hear or feel anything. It's like being underwater, liquid acting like a shield. Her lower lip is slightly hanging in gravity. It's only them, swallowed in time, as she takes the sight of the man before her. He looks tired; heavy bag under his eyes, which fixated somewhere and for a second she's jealous of whatever has his attention. She feels like she should have his undivided attention, she craves it. His hands are on the table, in a tight ball. His hair, a mimic of the smooth curls she ran her fingers through a million times before, a few scars had claimed his skin, the velvety surface she used to kiss every inch of day and night for over eleven years. She recognizes every inch of him; details matching every piece of the memories of him, it almost looks surreal. Until she looks at his clothes; she doesn't recognize his clothing, it looks so unfamiliar, uncanny, a reminder that things aren't what they were. Another punch to the gut and she can barely feel it. She's overwhelmed. "It's him," she gasps mostly to herself. As if finally seeing him, saying the words out loud gave everything a context, took any bit of doubt she still possibly had. And she doesn't know whether to run to his arms or yell at him.

It's only when she feels a tap on her shoulder that she looks away, for once grateful for the agent next to her, handing her tissues. When her hands move she notice she no longer holds the cup. It's at her feet, liquid spilled everywhere around her. She couldn't care less as she takes the tissues, drying the few tears that gave her away, showcasing her weakness.

She was half listening to what the man next to her was saying, " … from the looks of it he was living in a cabin there, the local authorities found him and called us, fortunately he still had his ID tag necklace on. It's how we were able to identify him ourselves. The doctors say… "

She interrupts him, "the doctors?" as in plural?

"He went trough a lot."

"I can see that." Venom and disdain clearly dripping from her voice.

"Ma'am, I mean he went trough _a lot_. We still don't know the full extent of the damage his brain has suffered from but-" the hesitation to share further information is clear in his voice, like a breach in the armor he's been wearing so far, he looks at her like he's trying to gauge how much she can take and she sucks in a breath, trying to ready herself for something she's not sure she wants to know. But he's her husband, as unsure as she is of her readiness to possibly learn more about the man she used to know like the back of her hand, she feels like she owes herself, she owes her son that much. She nods, willing him silently to continue, "we don't know how much his brain has blocked out. It would be normal in such situations; our troupes mostly come back from traumatic experiences, so many suffer from PTSD, but so far two doctors plus the one from where he was examined him, and were unable to determine how far his memory loss goes back to. He could have buried more happy memories than others- mainly because of guilt. I can't let you in there, knowing he might not recognize you. His case is pretty famous here, we're only trying to help you."

"He might not recognize me?" she lets out in a breath, there's a crack in her voice, a punch so powerful to her gut; it almost takes her breath away. She blinks several times, an effort to keep herself in check, bricks forming around her, raising an impossibly long, invisible wall around her body. It's too much to take in, too much. She turns her face to the glass window, watching the man she fell so hard for, the man she would trade places with if it means helping him get through this. But all she sees is the mimic of her son. If he really doesn't remember them, it would definitely end her. She bites her lip, so hard she can almost taste blood. She's been living in unfamiliar uncertainty for too long and as familiar and almost _reassuring _her oddly protective cocoon might be, if she really wants to rebuild her life, she knows what's left to do. Hard is actually so far away from what she feels she's about to deal with, "I want to see him. Just let me in," she says in a soft yet determined voice. The wall is back up, and only one person can break it.

Tom looks at the imposing figure of a man standing nearby the door, nodding at him as he steps away and glides a card in the card reader. The light turns green; it's now or never. Taking a deep, steady breath, she opens the door, she can feel her body shaking, her brain recalling the last words Tom spoke ringing her ears as the words _PTSD_, _memory loss_, _we can't assess yet the extent of the damage_ dance in front of her eyes. But when she steps inside, she can see a woman in a white blouse she hadn't noticed before – probably a nurse- with a table housing what she can guess are drugs in front of her. It's scary, no it's unsettling, and it's the kind of things she watches in movies and shows but not her actual life. It's like jumping in a cage with a lion; only it's not fear of being attacked that scares her, but the possible rejection.

She stand in front of the door, Tom standing directly behind her as he closes the door and doesn't budge, leaving her free to do anything she wants. But she stands still, eyes locked with him, willing him to look up and take her in his arms hold her tightly, crush her against his chest until she can't breathe; she wants him to run to her and kiss her; she wants him to tell her he does remember who she is who their son is; she wants a miracle to happen. As if on cue, she feels him tense and her heart starts a wild run out of her chest. Her left foot attempt to take a step up, try to close the distance, they've never stood in the same room with so much air, so much distance between them. She feels cold, alone; she's scared. She wants to say something, call his name, but she's left voiceless, her vocal chords unwilling to cooperate as her head screams his name over and over again. As if he can hear her pleas, he looks up from the haze he's been sucked in, and the coldness radiating from him is worse than a snowstorm freezing her bones. It only takes her a few seconds to partially recover as she tries to read him; something she used to be so good at. Her eyes are trying to break whatever barrier he put up; she's not an idiot, she can actually feel it. She's used to working with people with the same defense mechanism. She knows if she can break it, whatever's imposing itself between them, it would be winning a tiny bit of this _war_. The word is acrimonious on her tongue.

Slowly, she inches toward the available chair in front of him; it's at arm-reach. Perfect. She doesn't want to unsettle him. They're walking on very thin ice; any faux pas could be the end of it. When she's mid-distance from the chair, he stands up and she tries her best not to freak out, a hard task to say the least when you don't know what's coming next, what to expect. From the corner of her eye, she can see the nurse standing, an abnormally long needle in her hand, never breaking eye contact, she slowly raises her hand halting the woman's movements, effectively stopping her. There's something about his eyes, about the way he's looking at her, something amongst the anguish that's haunting his features and torturing his bloodshot eyes, something else is standing out. It's small, actually it's tiny, a shy sunray in grey clouds, but it's there. She can feel it, and it brings tears to her eyes as he approaches her, waves of electricity linking them again. Slowly. It's blue and brown melting together, in an oddly way, rediscovering each other. Giving way to another sense of stained familiarity. As he's slowly killing the remaining distance, he looks her up and down, taking her in, gauging her as if he's trying to link her to some memory.

_Oh, God. Please, please_. She closes her eyes, praying over and over, hoping that the touch she knows is coming isn't going to turn her soul to ashes. It feels like an eternity has gone by, as if hours transpired since her eyelids shut down before a calloused hand meets her skin, familiar fingertips claiming the side of her face. She opens her eyes, hoping to see the break of a smile but all she can see is torture squeezing his face to a slight shade of red as his eyes water like he's going to break into tears. She can't stop it anymore. She wants to hug the pain away, be the soothing medicine he so desperately needs, it tornes her own soul seeing him like this. In so much apparent pain she wants to hold him as they cry together. Involuntarily, her hands rise up to grab his arms, draw him closer. Barely has she made contact with him, he jerks away, shaking his head vigorously as if her touch burnt him, "No, no. Please, no." his voice as shaken as the rest of his body.

Rejection is like a bullet from a smoking gun.

She's taken outside, she can't believe it. It hurts even more when it's real. A hurricane passed through her. She's taken to a chair, sitting is what she needs right now. Her feet are trembling, she knows she wouldn't have lasted long. She grips her head between her hands, trying to make sense what happened to him, what could be so bad to leave such a heavy weigh, a print on him. Her mind is haunted by how he looked, as if his worse nightmare became reality. The second the tip of her fingers made contact, she knows she lost him, like his brain shut down and went so far away he couldn't see her anymore. Like his mind transported him elsewhere and he doesn't realize it's only some kind of a vision. Like he's haunted.

But one thing she's absolutely sure of, he knows who she is. Her ears are finally functioning again as she hears his ragged breathing from outside the room. She looks up only to see him clenching his temples until his nails turn white, his face bright red. The slight lighting in the room making contact with a ring on his finger- his wedding band.

* * *

_It's a beautiful, incredibly warm spring day. She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, taking in the slightly blush colored wedding gown she decided she would get married in. She smiles at the reflection; she knows he'll love it. Especially the back; nearly non-existent. She's not exactly nervous. No, she's ecstatic. Today, she's marrying her best friend, her lover, and the love of her life. All three combined in one person. To their joined friends, it made no sense waiting as long as they did to get married. They were deemed as the non-married boring old couple. Probably because they were so domesticated. Already._

_She looks at the mirror, focusing again on her looks. Or at least, trying to. Gabriella, her older sister, had taken her phone away, because "the bride and groom shouldn't be seeing each other let alone texting so give me that damned phone". _

_She had laughed. From what? She has no clue. She just wants the ceremony to be over with. She never liked being the center of attention, not even on her own wedding day. She wanted to run down the aisle, urge the priest to speak quickly and pronounce them as husband and wife. Husband. She smiles, Mrs. Grant., she loves the ring of it. Holds so many promises. Before she knows it, she and her father are linking arms as he gives her away to the man that has captured her heart. That owns every inch of her, and has been claiming her for the past two years. She's losing herself; no she's swimming in an ocean of blue love, of affection as they're reciting the vows one after the other. He takes her hand, slowly pushing another ring up, slowly claiming her forever as she does the same, linking their hearts for the rest of eternity. A bond that will never be broken. _

_When they turn around, their respective parents are crying their eyes out as they're hugging them, their siblings joining in the overflowing happiness. Because that's what's being whole means. Their eyes connect, a thousand love words unspoken. Because they don't need to utter them to know how they feel about one another, it's all in the eyes when you know where to look. What to look for. _

_"Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III."_

* * *

She looks up at Tom, dragging her mind out of buried memories, "He knows who I am, he knows me. I don't know how but he does. He's wearing his ring," Her voice doesn't leave room for uncertainty or debate. It's a fact. Somewhere in the darkness, she knows there's the man she loves, the man she needs so badly.

"He refuses for anyone to take it from him. It was a struggle to get him prepped for the scans. Follow me, ma'am. There's something I need to show you."

There's an office not too far. The overall décor as gloomy and uninviting as the rest of the place. Whatever this place might be. Tom takes an evidence plastic bag housing a few folded papers, maybe two or three, she can't tell. He opens them, laying them in front of a chair where he invites her to sit, "Take a look."

With shaky hands, she takes the seemingly old paper, that's been folded and unfolded so many times, the edge of the tick paper have divided into multiple layers. When she unfolds it, her hand flies to her mouth. There, a picture of her and their son, they were still at the hospital, Ryan is barely two days old, eyes closed, they're nose against nose as she's looking at him with infinite tenderness.

She takes the soaked tissue, catching the tears before they escape, before they blur her vision. The second picture is a family picture, all she can see are smiles and they seem like they're mocking her. An old version of them pouring out their happiness.

"Where did you find these?" she certainly knows the answer. She just needs to hear it.

"The soldiers found them under a pillow back there. It might explain why he seems to remember you. Ma'am, we want your consent to start therapy. The doctors are optimistic. I won't lie to your face, he's had horrific nightmares, and he screams at night from what we've been told but there are ways to help him."

"How?"

"We want to try hypnosis, try to have him remember some things so that we can retrace whatever happened to him. It will take time, maybe even months but he'll get through it."

"What do you need?"

"Pictures. If you have any, DVDs, audios anything that could bring up memories, it will help his brain recollect and work on remembering those parts of his life. At this point PTSD patients only need to be reassured, feel less alone, they feel guilty because they're alive and not their buddies, they feel like they're misunderstood. We want to change that. We have the technology to help him and we will, memory loss is something we can overcome with the right therapy. I can have a doctor filling you in as soon as possible."

"I want to take him home."

"Ma'am, that's not a good idea."

"He shouldn't be alone, he needs somewhere he can feel like home. He _needs_ his home."

"We want to keep him for a few days, just until we can tame him. He needs to be heavily sedated for now. Like I said earlier he's been through a lot."

She nods, she's powerless. She can't lie and pretend like he didn't scare her, "What do you need me to do?"

"Just bring us some pictures, DVDs, be here for him. He'll be transferred tonight to a hospital, private quarters. You can come and go, as you like. As soon as he's cleared to go home, I'll make sure no one is standing your way."

It's nearly five in the morning when she opens the door. The house feels odds, probably because she's bone tired.

Although this night is completely different, leaving her drunk in her feelings, although she's trying to build up a wall, she feels like she's totally failing. Her face plunged head first in her tear-stained pillow. Praying for enough strength to help her get through this.

* * *

**I can't find the words to thank you for your words and your support. Thank you doesn't begin to cover it but really, thank you!**

**Next up, you should have Fitz's perspective (if I can manage to portray him..). The way I'm seeing this story is him overcoming PTSD (I know you don't exactly totally heal from it but you can overcome it, build a new bridge towards 'normalcy') so you'll have flashbacks (good and bad) as he's getting the help he needs. Actually both need it. **

**Thanks for reading and feel free to leave me your thoughts. **


	3. Chapter 3

**For this story, especially when it's Fitz-centered I'm taking liberties. I'm not a doctor, and I'm not a therapist but I hope I stayed as close to reality as possible. This is kind of long, kind of deep, but I tried to make the ending worth it, the beginning of a path towards the light, you'll see what I mean, at least I hope. This chapter is making me nervous but hopefully you'll like it ( and I sound creepy but you get my point, right?)**

* * *

**Day one:**

"Breathe in from your nose. Keep it in. Exhale slowly, from your mouth. Again, breathe in from your nose, slowly, keep it in. Exhale, slowly. You're safe; no one here wants to hurt you. Relax, and let it all out. Get the tension out of your muscles; let it all go. You're fine, you're safe, we're looking after you, you're safe; no one will be hurting you. Don't forget to breathe, and breathe correctly. Yes, that's it; you're doing great." The therapist says, a soft voice never fading, the voice soothing yet commanding, giving him a feeling of security as the baritone's wrapping him up like a cradled baby. He was put under his old friend's care. It was supposed to make it better, in a way it is.

He's sitting on a leather chair, looking straight forward, his lungs obeying the orders on their own, independently, like they're detached from the rest of his body. It feels oddly good; the feeling of actually breathing again, he can feel the cool air brushing against his nostrils, filling his lungs, reaching every inch of his veins, spreading through his body, fusing to his blood.

He feels alive, actually alive.

His senses are heightened. Reaching levels he hasn't felt like in forever. It feels good. Too good. And he's not supposed to be feeling this. Everybody's looking at him like he's some hero but truth is, he's not. It's the farthest from the truth. He feels like a coward, he feels like he failed but he's dignified as a hero. Wearing a crown he doesn't deserve and it's weighing on him. Crushing him. Bringing him deeper, further towards his cell until he can't see the light anymore. Darkness is sacred king. He should be glad to be alive, he should be counting every day he's blessed to be alive. Only, he doesn't feel this way. That's not how a man who's watched death in the eyes several times thinks, it's not how a man who's seen tortured, pleading eyes thinks. It's fear eating his bones, his soul- owning him, dictating his every movement; until it gets to his brain, proclaim itself sole owner of him. Deep down, he knows he's not supposed to be breathing; he's not supposed to be alive. He shouldn't have the luxury of living. He should have died.

It's like flashes hitting his brain- mercilessly, fighting for his undivided attention and it's a few seconds before they disappear, images of his friends dying before his own eyes, he should have done something, he should have never agreed to taking them there; they had gone a little over their prescribed borders, he should have seen the men coming, he should have known, he should have done something, react faster, yell at them to obey him. But he didn't. And now, one died on the spot, the other's body gave up weeks or months later. He's not sure, he can't tell. He had lost timing references. He _wanted_ to survive. He _needed_ to survive. And now, he's blaming his survival instincts.

Then, the torture stops, his vision focusing again- he's reading some honorary lines on a diploma. It comes back to him- where he is. How grateful he should be to be back. But will he ever be able to forgive himself?

"Whatever happened on the field, it wasn't your fault." The therapist says, as if reading his mind. As if he could see what his brain is displaying- secrets unveiled.

Of course it was. Had he acted differently, two lives would have been spared. It was his fault. There's no one else to blame but him.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he says- through clenched teeth, trying to keep himself in check, trying not to lose himself, his control,- for the first time during the entire session, looking at the man straight in the eyes, from above the glasses he's wearing. His head is dizzy, his focus is slipping away -fast, breathing uneven, eyes wide open and he tears them from him, like they're going to give him away. "No one knows. No one knows." He whispers, like a secret he's reminding himself of. A prayer on repeat. A weight on his conscience. _Guilt_.

"I don't," the therapist concedes, "but I'm here, so tell me. You're not doing anyone any favors staying like this. You can overcome this, you know you want to."

"I can't talk about it." He shouts. He didn't mean to; it's like losing control of his own doings, his body committing the ultimate treason. Giving him away. He looks around the room, searching, trying to find some comfort, seeking for something familiar, something to soothe the growing panic rising in his chest, feeding on his lungs, "I'm not ready to talk about it. That….What happened there…. It's just… I just… I don't have the words to talk about it. I can't. I don't want to talk about it," he shakes his head, trying to get rid of memories that are eating him alive.

The therapist looks at him for a while, undisturbed, his features keeping whatever he's thinking away from him and it's frustrating, he feels like he's under a microscope. Put under scrutiny. All the lights set on him. Finally, the older man makes his way to his desk, takes a plastic evidence bag from which he retrieves some papers, he puts them on the table, in front of him. "You know who they are?"

For a second, his eyes soften. Of course he knows who they are; she's so beautiful, so tender, so loving, and their son is the sweetest baby he's ever laid eyes on.

_And he doesn't deserve them._

When he saw her enter that room, he couldn't even look at her. He did _not_ deserve her. She had plagued his mind, weighed so much on it he wasn't sure neither what to do nor to say.

_He could feel her, even from outside the door; he wanted to reach for her. Badly. Desperately. But he didn't know where they stood, was she with someone else? How long had he been away? Was it too late? As fucked up as he was, would she let him near Ryan one last time? If only to say goodbye to his son? He wouldn't harm him, he couldn't harm him…_

_When she entered the room, he kept his gaze on the table, still refusing to look her in the eyes and see some other man's effect on her. That, he couldn't stand. Emotional torture is the worse. But he could hear her calling for him- no, screaming his name until his ears begged him to do something. Anything. He needed to distance himself from her; he needed- no he __had__ to be cold towards her, if he could make her believe he had changed, that things had spiraled down to the point of no return, that their love was shattered, that he didn't for one minute –one second think of her, that he didn't care, maybe it would make things easier for her, that he was so messed up he couldn't love her anymore, maybe it would make her feel a little better about herself. Assuage her guilt. Allow her to move on. Burry her feelings for him once and for all. He could bear a little more pain. For her, he would do anything. Give up anything. Even if it meant sinking further down his hellhole. _

_When he looked up, it was misplaced relief and guilt washing over him. He felt so guilty; he couldn't bear seeing her that way- so hurt, so pained, so heartbroken. Her eyes were as shattered as his soul was. She didn't look at him like she pitied him. No, she looked at him like deep down- where eyes can't reach, she could see him, truly see him like no one else could; and she was relieved, she was happy. Souls communicating. But things had changed, they weren't the perfect portrait of happiness they used to be, spots tarnished the frame, the picture, their lives, a reminder of what the situation truly looked like now. Love is bittersweet. When their eyes met, he didn't let his guard down, a little voice devilishly whispering to his subconscious, he looked as her eyes widened in shock before she quickly recovered. He still can't make sense of it. He could let her go, wasn't that what she wanted? _

_When she made her way towards him, slowly, carefully, he noticed the gigantic space between them, like they both were on two different universes, out of sync, letting the cold in, the obnoxious feeling gnawing on every available surface of his body. Imposing itself like a home. Only he doesn't want that, he had prayed over and over for a miracle, for a way back home, to see his family even if one more time before releasing his last breath. Before letting life go, switching his soul off. _

_Home. The house he had built from the ground up for them, he recalls the first time he's shown it to her, when he'd sworn that nothing would ever come between them, he had promised her he'd keep the stars shinning so bright and they'd look at them, even if there were oceans, seas and continents separating them, because one thought is worth a thousand words._

_A shining diamond, like a fallen star catches his eyes, tugs at his heart. He could have recognized those rings amongst a million others. He had chosen them. A way of claiming her as his. His heart is beating fast, thundering against his chest, against his temples, against his digits, his brain working so fast, he stands up, makes his way towards her, eyes barely containing the nearly overspill of tears._

_Livie… _

_But he doesn't utter a sound; it's more like a mental, desperate plea. _

_She had waited for him; she had believed in him, she had suffered for him. He keeps walking- something deep inside him pulling him to her like a magnet, forcing his legs to move - nearly striding towards her, he's split; deep down he's torn. Should he take her in his arms, should he kiss her, should he talk? He doesn't know… He doesn't even know what to say, where to begin. It feels like an invisible broken bridge is separating them. He can feel the nurse behind him standing up, probably awaiting for the opportunity to inject more of whatever she had already given him. He watches as she closes her eyes, and doesn't open them. If she afraid of him? The thought petrifies him. There are so many things he wants to do. He misses the feeling of her skin beneath his digits, the smoothness as he runs his fingers over her cheeks, lips, hips, every curve of her body._

_His hand flies up almost on its own, resting on her cheek- a simple touch but it gives him so much, let so much hope in. Opens up a window towards tenderness he made sure to keep closed. She's the only one who could bring him to his knees. Tear him apart. Destroy him. She opens her eyes, and he's lost in her; it's pain choking his heart so hard he can hardly breathe. For the first time he can really see it- the twisting pain ravaging her eyes is bewildering. It's your fault. You did that to her. The words echo in his head like blasting music. She should have moved on, she should have found someone who can actually make her happy, erase any trace of pain he's caused. He should see her smile, watch as flickers of happiness ignite the living fire in her eyes, and make them look so alive it's mesmerizing. But all that's left is hollow sadness, and it had his fingerprints all over it. A dull, stabbing reminder of what's he's done. Then there's hope; small, actually barely visible but it's there, he can feel the strings pulling them closer, relaxing his mind, soothing his fears, taking away his burdens. His heart beating normally, once again, his veins thanking him for actually providing some happiness within his bloodstream as heat warms up his body. Color rushing back to his face. He wants to cry from sheer happiness, for the first time in years. _

_Then it's a touch, feathery light, and instead of his wife, all his can see is the lifeless body in front of him. He's back on the battlefield. It's fear freezing his bones, preventing any reaction, any movement. The setting is shaky, his ears are ringing, and he's lost. There's dust everywhere, tiny particles flying to his throat, making it a struggle to breathe, his tongue is so dry, his vision almost blurry as he sees the body flying to rest next to him, manly fingers brushing against his arm, lifeless eyes starring accusingly at him, wide-open and terrified. His heart starts up again, a frenzy moving his entire system. His lungs hardly breathing, his brain protesting against the lack of oxygen. It feels like he's been fooled into thinking he could be fine for more than a minute. _

"_No, no. Please, no." he couldn't take any more of the vivid dreams. It felt like the last lifeline keeping him to sanity was giving up on him, slowly ripping. Something hard hits the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. _

"….Mr. Grant? Fitz? Are you still here?"

Just like that, just like pushing back a button, the setting changes once again. No, there's no battlefield just like there's no interrogation room and there's no wife. Like there's no release. The inner voice laughing hysterically, pointing fingers at him. His ears start functioning normally again, although it felt like they were never failing him. He shakes his head, like he's shaking the thoughts, clearing his mind. Fighting his way towards sanity.

"Yes, yes I'm here, I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"There's nothing to talk about. I said I'm fine. Drop it," shouting again, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, eyes somewhat discreetly looking left and right, looking for the hidden trap.

The therapist looks at him quizzically, he knows not to push, he can only try so much to have him re-live what happened to him but he can't force his brain to remember things he's keeping buried, it would cause more harm than good. "Do you like to write?" the therapist asks suddenly.

He looks at the man like he's just spoken a foreign language; like he's spoken in a code he can't make sense of, "what?"

"If you're not ready to talk about it, you can try writing it down, as vivid as it comes to you, write about any and everything." When he laughs, the therapist continues, "It's more helpful than it can seem. Here take these, retracing memories back whether through talking or writing can help you more than you imagine, help you move on," he hands him a little notebook and a pen.

**Day two:**

He keeps staring at the blank page he hasn't touched since the day before. He takes the pen again, for the tenth time today. He wants to write, he knows he needs to but it would be giving life to memories, more like movies that are still battling for his attention. His eyes graze the wall in front of him, meeting the pictures he's put there, the pictures that saved him, that kept him sane.

Today, he's been able to talk to Henry, the therapist, mostly because he was bone tired. He couldn't close an eye without shaking, flying out of his bed. His mind needing, craving a release, seeking a listening ear. He was afraid of being judged, of people being disgusted at him. Henry didn't utter a word, only nodding periodically when he looked at him, seeking a reaction. He looks at the brown eyes fixing at him, although they're frozen in time, they seem like they're begging him. Begging him to get better, for them. For their family.

The burning memory of her driving him to the airport rises to the surface.

_They had barely slept through the night. Instead, they had spent the entire night giving in the burning desire that had their bodies set on fire. Both needing the physical proximity. It was his last mission, last deployment, a few more months of distance, of uncertainty and fear, and they would be done. He would take in a teaching position at a college, teach his undying love for the law, and they would start trying for another baby. Ryan would be around half way to turning three. It would be the perfect timing. He enjoys the feeling of her body next to his, gripping him as tightly as she can, and he reciprocates the gesture, needing her as much as she does him. Relishing the heat radiating from her body. When she turns to kiss his Adam's apple, he tucks her head beneath his chin, kissing the crown of her head, his free arm making its way around her body, his fingers latching to her side as he presses her against his chest, against the heart she owns._

_He feels a few droplets land on his skin and quickly dries her tears, "please, Livie, don't cry," he pleads and tightens the protective walls of his hands around her, reminder her that she'll be fine, they'll be fine. _

"_I promise I'm fine, we will be fine. I just expected your last deployment to actually be the last. You know with Ryan now…"_

"_They need me," he sighs, he loves his country so much he didn't think twice before enrolling in the Navy, he did it because he loved it, it was a noble cause, and he could help. He didn't have anyone else at the time, obviously things had changed, but he still wanted to go for it. One last time. "This is the last one, I promise. In six months, I'll be back; it will all just be a bad dream. It will be done and over with. I'll apply for a teaching position and we'll work on getting you pregnant again." He kisses her- a stamp to seal his promises. "I'll always come back to you." The soothing promise rocking her to sleep, fueling her dreams. _

_A few hours later, after they were done having lunch with their families, they're at the airport; he takes his son in his arms, kissing his forehead and chubby cheeks, inhaling his sweet scent one last time, brings him against his chest, it lingers for a moment before he reaches for his wife, holding his family one last time until he gets back. It's only six months. _

"_Please, please, be careful." She pleads. She's putting on a strong face, failing miserably in the process, furiously blinking as not to let any tears escape. There will be plenty occasions to give in to crying her heart out. _

"_Always. I'll see you in six months. Livie, I promise, I'll come back." He smiles at her, giving her all she needs to believe him. He'll be back. Time will fly by. He hopes. _

"_Ryan, say bye to daddy," she says as she turns her attention to the baby on her hip. The little boy reaches for his father, landing a loud wet kiss on his cheek, "Bye, daddy!" he smiles, displaying all his teeth. Oblivious to the situation. Innocence. _

Livie, I promise, I'll come back.

He had promised her. He had promised them. He had failed and now he owes it to them, to his family to get his life back together.

He grasps the pen, opens the blank page that's been staring at him, almost accusingly, forcing him to do something, to act, be man enough –whatever that means - to lay his most painful thoughts on the soft surface. He closes his eyes tightly as yelling, gunfire and bombing goes off in the back of his mind, and it goes on, on repeat. Again and again. His grip tightens, to a point where he's almost breaking the pen and starts writing. Letting the demons out.

**Day three:**

It goes back again, again, again. Daytime spent with the therapist, at night, his brain replaying his memories, some are clear others are blurry and some he still can't access. Locked down, somewhere, probably for the better. He still looks at the pictures- daily, remembers her visits even if they don't need much talking. Her mere presence is the best medicine. He's doing it for a reason- he owes it to himself, to his family. A reminder that's actually music to his ears, a rope bringing him slowly but surely towards the blinking, barely but still there light.

He's back on his chair, talking is easier, way easier although he could do better, now that he somewhat opened up, more like a crack. It might be just words, but knowing that the facts are out there, in the open, for anyone to see, to read, to hear, it feels liberating in the daytime. Night is like a nightmare, a vengeance. It's still somewhat hard, the memories as vivid as if some events had just happened but with Henry, the therapist, they've been working on making him talk more, get him to open up, retracing the events that took place right after the bombing and the shootings, then they switch on to some recordings, videos of laughter and joy, happiness as bright as the sun.

At night, when he's tired enough to let his eyes closed, it comes back.

_He's shaking. He's shocked. He can't move fast enough, in fact he can't move at all. A cloud of dust weighing over their heads. One man died on the spot, Tyron, pushing him out of the way, behind the security of a rock, hiding him, he was young and so promising. It all happened in mere seconds, too fast for his brain to register anything. They had been exchanging small talk, barely audible whispers really. It still gave them away. It's like treason. He feels like a traitor. _

_The other one, Michael, was near his age, an eternal solitary who gave his whole life away for his country. Patriotic. He can't remember how but the farthest his memory goes back to is almost a year later. He found himself in a village, unstable and constantly under attack. Every few days, when the inhabitants would come back soon after that soldiers would follow up, heavily armed, shooting without a care in the world. At one point it became unbearable. He was famished, injured from his multiple attempts at staying alive. One bullet claiming his leg as a home._

_Ahmed. He remember the old man that saved his life, took him in like his own son, nursed him back to health. He had found him as his brain was giving up on him, nearly knocked out from heavy bleeding. He had woken up a few days later, under the shelter of a tent, a makeshift made protecting him. Ahmed had taught him tricks to survive, gave him weapons and fed him. God, the food was heaven on his tongue. Actual food, a mix of spicy flavors. Like any sent God-sent angel, he had died as well, one day as they were headed at a meeting point where they could exchange whatever they had against food. Ahmed knew where to access fresh water. He was to come back to his wife, Zahra, a sweet woman Ahmed sung praises about day and night. Because of him he would never see her again. Because of him, there was a widow and three orphans. _

Then it's peach black.

He clutches his head with his arms, willing his head to focus, his face twisting in pain, he grunts, memory land resisting him, refusing to grant more access. He's tired. He can feel desperate, annoyed wetness gathering at his eyes, a headache forming.

"Don't force too much. The brain is an intelligent part of the body. It's only your third session. You're doing amazing. You've opened up so much; you're starting to talk about it much easier. I just need you to take it easy at night. Keep on writing but you need your rest; I'll give you these. They'll help you sleep when you need it. Peaceful rest if the key. Your brain, your body will be thanking you," Henry says, his features a lot more confident as he sees how many pages are swimming in ink.

**Day four: **

It's a movie on the flat screen. A baby standing on wobbly legs, hands stretched out as he's trying to find some equilibrium to support his chubby legs. It's a voice screaming, supporting the baby, the voice he fell madly in love with.

Instinctively, his fingers play with his band, the beginning of a smile forming on his lips.

"_Come on baby, you can do it! Come to mommy," she's standing a few steps away from the baby, arms outstretched; an attempt to get Ryan to come to her. _

_The baby seemingly jumps up and down without his legs actually leaving the ground, clutching the nearby couch so hard his little hands turn white. He's smiling, grinning, babbling in a baby language, cheering with his mother._

"_Come on Ryan, go to mommy," he says, still holding the camera, trying to get the clearest video despite the emotions playing, the excitement diffusing in his veins. "you can do it little man, go to mommy," he cheers._

_The little brows frown, the baby focusing on getting his small body under control, getting his little feet under his command. He takes a tiny step forward, his parents' encouragements somewhat in the back of his mind, he's looking in front of him, seeing his mother's teary eyes, bright smile, the familiar cocoon completely open for him to step in between. Baby feet speed forward, nearly losing his balance as he lands against her bosom. _

_The baby is hugged, loud cheers showering him with attention and the bright smile showing the few tiny teeth. _

_Pride, joy, happiness. That's what life should about. _

"I want to go home," he replies, looking the therapist straight in the eyes, "I want to be with my family." he's trying to reach to his friend, not the professional.

"And you will," a soft feminine voice speaks form the entrance, she breaks eye contact for a second, wordlessly asking if it's ok for her to come in, Henry nods and she steps in, closing the distance between them until she sits on the other end of the couch.

He's craving her proximity, her closeness, he wants her –no, _needs_ her in his arms. And she's looking at him, like she's seeking, requesting permission. Needs are the same. The connection stronger. He can't resist her if he tried. As undeserving as he might still feel, his blood is boiling, urging his fingertips to reach for her. An open palm offered in the middle, between their bodies. She takes it, tightening her hold on him. Strengthening the once fading lifeline. The beginning of a shy sunray.

* * *

**Olivia – day three- therapist office:**

"How is he doing?" she asks, nervous. Days have been hectic, they seem like an eternity and she's ready to take him home, still believing he should be with his family; that familiarity is the best form of therapy.

"He's doing great, there are still a few issues but he's made an incredible progress." Henry responds, always the professional figure. "Tomorrow I'm planning on showing him some videos, coaxing his mind towards some happy memories, yesterday was particularly heavy on him."

"Is he ready to come home?"

"I feel like he'll ask for it. Actually I'm willing to take bets on it. Very soon if not tomorrow. He's writing more and more about you and your son. Smiling unconsciously when happy memories cross his mind. It's actually the only times he's genuinely happy. Come by at the end of the session. I'm sure he'll want to come home. His time here is definitely done."

She gets home and it's late, a habit that took place for the past few days. She relieves the babysitter, bidding her goodnight. She makes her way upstairs, to the little boy's room. He's sleeping soundly, completely oblivious to any problems. No cloud above his dreams. All she can see is her husband through her son's features. A carbon copy. She sits on the edge of the space-themed comforter, running the tips of her fingers gently, in soothing patterns though his hair, slowly waking him, "Baby, wake up."

Sleepy blue eyes fix her, confused, "mommy?"

"Hi, baby. Come here," she opens her arms for him, bringing him, cradling him like she used to do when he was younger and it was his bedtime, she runs her hands gently on his back, a source of comfort, "do you remember what mommy told you about daddy?" he takes a moment to remember, digging in his memories then nods somewhat sadly, "Daddy is back, honey."

He looks at her, wide eyes staring at her. Hope shining in his eyes. A smile spreading, lifting his cheeks. He looks at his bedroom door expectantly, as if he's waiting for his father to show up and take him in his arms. So overdue moment.

"He's not at home right now," she clarifies and he pouts, she'd give anything to have her husband home at that exact moment but it's only hours ticking this time around. Soon, very soon. It will be over. As long as he's back home, they can take anything, together they're invincible. Bulletproof. Heartache-proof. Sadness-proof. "I promise tomorrow night he'll be here."

The smile appearing is the best gift she could ask for.

"Mommy, can I come with you?"

She wants to say yes, because she can't refuse him anything. Not anymore. "You'll have to stay with grandma, but before you'll know it, daddy is going to be here. With us."

* * *

The ride home is somewhat awkward, but not exactly. Fingers are intertwined, refusing to let go of each other, holding tight. A dream _finally _come true. A gift straight from the heavens. When they get home, the toddler is spread out sleeping in the back seat, they found him fast asleep at her parents' place and didn't have the heart to wake him. She wants to wake him, but he refuses, he carries his son inside, taking him upstairs to tuck him in. When he reaches the top of the stairs, he kisses the toddler's forehead. She smiles at the sight. A taste of normalcy. Of what things used to be. She knows that in no time, love will overcome anything.

She's already done with her night routine, walks to the bedroom, expecting him to already be in bed but he's nowhere to be found. She takes a clean pajama set and lays in on the bed for him. She knows exactly where to find him.

She opens Ryan's room, and he's there, as predicted, sitting on the rocking chair they used to lull him to sleep in, where she used to nurse him in as a baby. He's looking after him, watching him sleep, make sure he doesn't miss any more of his life. Any more milestone than he's already missed.

She makes her way slowly, gently as not to startle him, when she's sure he can feel her, she lays a hand on his shoulder, some support. He's not alone, he won't be anymore. She's there, and she's never letting go of him. He squeezes her hand, bringing the knuckles to his lips, laying gentle pecks on each one.

"Let's go to bed."

He nods, mostly because the day sucked the energy out of him.

They get into bed, at first each one at an opposite side, and it feels so wrong. So unlike the. Gently, they move towards the center, it looks like a rehearsed choreography. They're lying on their backs, hands grazing each other, then holding tight. A bond never to be broken again. He maneuvers his hand underneath her body, until his finger emerge on the opposite side, brings her so that she's tucked to his side, her head following the natural movement until it lands on his chest. Almost in a shy manner, the exit always a possibility, a _useless_ possibility, for her to take her distances, he tightens his hold, her body molding perfectly against his. Pieces of a puzzle coming together again. Perfect, unmoved, un-shattered fit.

It's a sigh released in sync.

Familiar scents.

It smells like love. Like home. Home sweet home.

"I missed you, _so much_." The voice graces his ears like they're his favorite lyrics.

"I missed you too." _My saving grace._

They cling to each other as they succumb to sleep.

Deep, real sleep. For the first time in forever.


	4. Chapter 4

It's early morning. The sun barely, slowly rising; a beautiful mix of orange and deep shades of yellow fighting the deep dark blue that had taken over. It's the first sight that greets him as his eyes slowly adjust to the room. No cheap with rips-all-over-it, color washed makeshift fabric, no broken glass or random piece of wood or cardboard to act as a makeshift window-shield. He doesn't hear women's screams or children's cries or the elderly's lamentations. For a few seconds, he panics, not used to this overly quiet and oddly peaceful environment, every cell of his body rising to highest guard and his breathing labored. Though it's serene, filled with familiar pictures pinned into portraits all over the walls, it's still new, unfamiliar and a deranging mix of soothing and completely unsettling. Maybe it's his mind mocking him, maybe it's the reality and he can hear it- screams and cries and desperate pleas over the roaring of guns and bombs going off. It's not his normal anymore.

_Breathe in, slow, from your nose._

At first, he doesn't feel the weight on a side of his body, having gotten used to it at some point during the night. He'd probably never admit it but he had barely really slept. His dreams, or mental tricks, were so vivid he couldn't exactly pinpoint his current situation, was he still in his personal nightmare or was it real; was he really back home. Everything felt or was, he couldn't really tell, so real there weren't any real boundaries between reality and dreams. The old trick of pinching himself didn't exactly make a difference- the pain had at some point become an unwanted friend of his, a companion he couldn't really part with. Either way he could barely feel it.

_Release from your mouth._

His brain was a messy nest, swimming in an infinity of thoughts. The questions never really ended; did he really see his son? Did he really set foot back into their home? Was he really holding her close in the safety of his arms… safety? He chuckles dryly, mentally rolling his eyes. Was she really safe? Could he really still protect them? He had failed once; how can she even trust him again? He couldn't trust his own instincts; it feels like his body isn't his; that feeling of a foreign entity within him, completely owning him. He exhales as quietly as he can when he actually just wants to scream and let it all out – the frustration; that low self-esteem, the built up anxiety and distress. It was as if screaming, the act itself, could release the intruder whom had taken over his body and mind. But could it really?

It's too much and it's taking over him. Deep breaths leave his nostrils; hesitantly, he's tiptoeing with his breathing- he can't wake her up. Not again. She's tired. She's normal.

And he isn't. He's messed up. She's perfection.

_You can do it. You know you want to._

He suddenly feels her shifting in his arms, barely dipping the soft mattress further- her face sinking somehow deeper into his chest and feels a smile he doesn't understand why is even taking over and stretching her cheeks as she inhales him, her arms tightening around him, holding him as tight as her tinier frame can. She's his anchor. She had believed in him. Yet, he was supposed to be the rock she could rest on, he was supposed to be there for her, he was supposed to be that partner she could count on. But now, he can't even deal with his own issues and he feels like an additional burden weighing on her shoulders. A burden she doesn't need. The roles have been reversed. And he can't accept it. And he knows her, he knows she would roll her eyes if he dared saying that.

And God, how he wishes he could just change, get over it, get over it, get over it _dammit_.

Then it's a voice, dancing on some music sheets, making the sweetest noise his brain automatically identifies as her voice. It feels like finally putting the tip of his toe out of his tormenting hell. It feels like momentary relief. A teasing peek into what normalcy, whatever it actually is, feels like, a familiarity he can somehow still feel.

_I missed you._

_I missed you._

_I missed you._

He keeps chanting the words in his mind, somewhat relishing in the meaning of what she had confided in him. It's like a lullaby and he's the scared child. He was _never_ alone. Never again. Never again. He had actually held her; more like pressed her body flush against his as she mostly did the talking. The weight against his chest comforting him, a weight he's hoping is enough to keep him from drifting away as her familiar smell invaded his nostrils anchoring him to their reality. From letting thoughts invade him all over again.

She had filled him in briefly. They had spent the night, or a pat of it really, talking a little about their son, unwilling to open the still very fresh, bloody wounds. He could feel her hesitation. He could feel his own memories, flashes, and panic rising like electricity in his veins, pinching every available cell, every inch of his being. A stranger had taken over his body, controlling his actions, and he couldn't focus. It's irritation, and he feels like ripping his own skin if it meant getting rid of it; that little whisper going all over his brain. Nagging him. Teasing him. He wasn't ready. He couldn't even face his reality, much less talk about it. He could see, feel the cracks in the darkness warming up his skin, creating a few streaks of light. Thankfully, she didn't pressure him or talked him into opening up, only sharing a few details about Ryan; his best friends at school, his likes and dislikes, what he prefers for breakfast, his favorite shows and color and what superhero he's been into lately. And he's grateful. Grateful for what she did for him, for their son. For the albums. For freezing their life and their memories. Grateful for details that could piece together a reality.

Because maybe one day, his soul won't be as shattered and destroyed and he won't feel like bleeding. He won't feel this broken.

He feels her lips making contact with his bare chest and he involuntarily flinches- damn them habits, her hands going in soothing patterns on his sides as her gentle voice gently whispers, "go back to sleep, Ryan's a living energy ball when he wakes up, I swear you're safe."

And he tries, he really does, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he can and before he knows it, he flinches, almost completely jerking from their bed when he hears the soft chanting of a bird. It takes every ounce of self-control for him to detangle from her once he makes sure she's back to sleep.

He makes his way to the hallway, and habits are hard to break as he catches himself barely pressing the tip of his toes into the hard floors avoiding every nook and cranny he remembers the wood creaking. He feels like he's spending his life hiding.

Yet, he has no idea what he's supposed to be hiding from.

He grabs at the frame of the heavy wooden door, firmly, as he opens it slowly, taking in the strips of orange-y light bathing the room. He doesn't dare come in. Fatherly instincts kicking in- if he doesn't trust his own doings, how could he trust himself around his sleeping child? Everything seems and feels normal, except he knows; he can feel it, the slight difference hanging like a second skin layer, impossible to take off. He watches the deep inhales from the little slightly open lips, his little hands on either side of his small body, his eyes moving fast, wondering at whatever he is dreaming about. He looks around, committing the small changes in the room to memory yet he can almost see their dynamics during the times he wasn't around. He makes his way towards the child's bed, adjusting the covers to tuck him back in before he heads downstairs.

He doesn't know how long he's been outside, mindlessly staring at the sunrise, basking in the last few minutes of deafening quiet when he feels her before tinier arms try to snake a way around his middle, squeezing firmly as a cheek softly presses against his shoulder blades.

It suddenly feels like home again.

* * *

**Hello! It's been a while, hope y'all are doing well! **

**I know y'all were expecting the reunion between Fitz and Ryan but yeah i've had this done for a while now so i figured I'd just update. Maybe blocks will go away at some point... Shout out to Sora for her help with this ;) **

**Enjoy and until next time take care **


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